Home
by BethXP
Summary: John returns home from a month abroad visiting his army friends but there is a strange atmosphere around Sherlock as he comes back. In 3 parts.
1. Airport

He checked his watch again. Time seemed to be moving so slowly, a second seemed more like an hour. Normally Sherlock, when waiting, would spend his time analysing his surroundings and the people walking by, but this time he couldn't. He just sat there, unable to take his eyes of off the double doors. Waiting.

There was a woman he noticed out of the corner of his eye who kept looking back at him, nervous. _She doesn't like the way I am staring no doubt,_ he thought to himself. The woman got up and took her daughter who was with her out of Sherlock's line of sight. He didn't care. It didn't matter to him what people thought of him. He could look crazy in an airport to whomever, it didn't matter to him, he would never see them again.

John had only been away a month. A friend of john's was killed in Afghanistan and John felt it was his duty to go out there and pay homage and see his friends still in combat. Sherlock didn't stop him from going, though he wanted to, but the emptiness, the darkness without him had consumed Sherlock. His skin was no longer angel-like pale, but grey, and his eyes showed dark shadows where insomnia had set in. He had used John's pillow but that had stopped working long ago. Normally he didn't need to sleep, but now it was all he wanted, and he knew that tonight he might just get his wish.

He pulled his coat around him. It was so cold! It was always cold without John. He would be wearing his navy blue scarf but he couldn't find it. He had spent ages searching for it but it was nowhere to be seen. It was unlike Sherlock to lose things too.

23 minutes, the plane had landed _23 minutes ago,_ where was he? His hands were pressed tightly against his lips; he was like a statue unable to move. People had started to come through the doors. His brain couldn't help but separate the holiday makers from the businessmen. _On holiday, on holiday, back from holiday, business trip, affair, seeing family, business trip..._ but even this became dull faster than usual. Sherlock had not had any cases since john left. Not that he hadn't wanted to, he had tried but his mind would always wander back to John, what would John say? He just couldn't think straight without him. He had told Lestrade that the case was not worth his time and to sort it out himself.

_John, John, John where are you?_ His index finger twitched, he was getting impatient. 27 minutes. Surely there must have been a problem. His gun? No John didn't take it with him; the living room wall was proof of that. _John, John, John come on! Why are you torturing me like this?_

And then he saw him. The doors had opened again to let through a lady with far too many bags for just herself, and a man helping her, pulling a plain brown suitcase and a flowery cream one. John. Always a gentleman. Sherlock watched as John gave the lady back her suitcase as she thanked him for his help. John, always so good to people, too good for anyone. Sarah certainly didn't deserve him. He was thankful that it had ended before it got too serious. Sherlock didn't like sharing John. He was his John, and no one would take him away from him.

Sherlock got up, and walked quickly to John with the energy that had been missing this past month. John saw him coming and smiled. Sherlock resisted the urge to hug John, to embrace his John and feel that soft wool of his jumper against his face. Instead he just smiled back and said, "Welcome home."  
>"Thank you. Did you miss me?" Yes, yes, YES! His mind was screaming but he stayed composed and merely shrugged.<p>

"Sherlock, you look awful." John was inspecting Sherlock's face in the back of the taxi as they made their way home.  
>"A case," was all Sherlock could bring himself to say. John merely nodded, he could tell when Sherlock didn't want to, and so wasn't going to, tell him something. He could also tell when he was lying.<p>

The flat was a mess. Flasks, test tubes and microscopes were everywhere. There was no food and John was sure Sherlock had done no washing what so ever. He sighed as he took of his coat and jumper and placed them on his armchair.  
>"Oh Sherlock you shouldn't have. The washing, the shopping, the cleaning, all for me!" There was no anger or surprise in his voice but Sherlock still felt guilty. He could have at least made an effort for John. But he couldn't. All he could do was sit in John's armchair and count the seconds until it was time to go to the airport and see his beloved John.<p>

Sherlock sat on the sofa and rested his chin on his knees. All he had wanted was for John to come home and now that he was... he couldn't put his finger on it. John looked at him.  
>"Sherlock, what's wrong? I know there wasn't a case but you look like you haven't slept a wink. Have you been eating properly?" John, always the doctor, always caring, Sherlock smiled to himself. John walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge – empty. "Have you even been shopping since I left?"<br>"Got lost in the supermarket," was the reply from the living room. John laughed. Already Sherlock was feeling better. The void in his chest was beginning to close and the flat didn't seem so cold and bleak anymore.

John rooted around in the cupboard and found a tin of beans which he got out of the cupboard and placed in a saucepan. He walked back into the living room. "Beans on toast?" But Sherlock didn't answer. He was curled up on the sofa fast asleep; holding on tightly to the jumper John had been wearing. He looked so peaceful; John smiled as he covered him with a blanket like he had done so many times before. He then walked over to his suitcase and pulled out a navy blue scarf. Even after a month it still smelt like Sherlock. John placed it on the edge of the sofa. No doubt Sherlock had noticed it had gone missing but he thought it unlikely he would think he had taken it. Sherlock wouldn't be able to understand that he needed something to remind him of Sherlock whilst he was away. He had worn it every day. The soldiers had thought him crazy as it was so hot but John would have rather died of hyperthermia than taken it off. Every night as he slept he had used it as a reminder of home.

Home, where he belonged, with Sherlock.


	2. Awkward

That night Sherlock slept better than he had done in weeks. No nightmares, no waking up screaming, just a silent, deep sleep. He woke up with the sun burning his eyes. A gap in the curtains where Sherlock had taken a sample of the fabric for an experiment was letting the bright white light stream through. He sat up and pushed the blanket John had put over him the night before away from himself. He stretched out his lanky arms and glanced at the clock. 1:17 pm. What? How long had he slept? He stood up and John's jumper fell to the floor. He lovingly picked it up and placed it on the armchair. He couldn't help himself when John had put it down last night; he just had to feel the softness against his skin. He had wanted to do it when John was wearing it but he knew John got uncomfortable about Sherlock invading his personal space. And human contact was not something Sherlock would do on an every day basis.

He rubbed his eyes and walked into the kitchen. He was hungry; he hadn't been hungry for a long time. It was obvious John had been shopping as there was now food in the cupboards and milk in the fridge. Sherlock put on some toast and boiled the kettle. As he sat at the table he considered last night. John had returned and Sherlock felt better for it. He felt awake, warm, his brain was buzzing at its normal pace, and yet there was still something that was not quite right. There was something, something that he wanted to change but he didn't know what. Everything was the same since before John had left, nothing had changed, and Sherlock hadn't felt this way before.

He got up and placed his empty plate and mug in the sink and walked over to his phone. There was a message from John.  
>'Didn't want to wake you so I have gone for a walk. I did a little bit of shopping so you had something to eat when you woke up. Make sure you eat something. JW.'<br>Sherlock smiled. His John always looked after him. But that was it wasn't it. He wasn't his John. He could quite easily get up and leave whenever he wanted. He had left for Afghanistan; he had chosen to go out with Sarah over him before, nothing was stopping him from leaving forever. Sherlock couldn't bare the thought of it. It tore a hole in his heart every time John left that door without him. He wanted John, wanted him forever and for good. But what could he do about it? Nothing. Sherlock was not one for expressing his feelings. Even a smile took more effort than people appreciate. But when thinking of John a smile was easy.

Sherlock walked towards the stairs to get dressed but paused as he passed the sofa. His scarf, the one that had been missing was neatly folded on the arm. He picked it up and examined it. How on earth did it get there? There was no way he could have missed that. John must have put it there, but then where did he get it from? Sherlock went up the stairs, two at a time as per usual, to his room and got changed. A charcoal suit today with a blue-grey shirt, the same colour as his eyes. As he tied his second shoe lace - he always liked to wear his shoes, so that he was ready if a case came up - when he heard the front door open and close. John, he grinned, and darted downstairs, tripping on the bottom step. John lurched forward and caught him in his arms. His saviour. Sherlock straightened himself and patted himself down trying not to look too embarrassed as John laughed at him.

***

John had woken up at 7 am as his body clock was still out of sync. He got dressed and tiptoed downstairs. Sherlock was still sleeping, his arm hanging loosely off the sofa. John stood there taking in every feature of Sherlock's face. His wispy black hair had flopped forward covering one eye. It looked messy, although it also looked like every ringlet was in their exact place. Sherlock's eyelashes were very feminine. They curled upward, giving those crystal blue-grey eyes the perfect frame and really showing them off. John had never really seen eyes like them; they just drew him in every time. He couldn't help but get lost in them. John's eyes followed Sherlock's angular nose down to those perfectly crafted lips, the bow deeply defined and the colour pale but not unappealing. He looked so peaceful that John didn't dare wake him up. Instead he decided to make himself useful and get some shopping, taking plenty of cash since he refused to get into another fight with a chip and pin machine. He bought a few necessities and put them away in the cupboard.

It was now 12 pm and John considered waking Sherlock. He raised his hand and was going to shake his shoulder when a small gurgle passed through Sherlock's lips. John couldn't help but find this adorable and thought he couldn't wake him now so he decided to go for a walk. Just a short walk to the park and back. Maybe he would sit and watch some children feed the ducks. He used to do that when he was little. No doubt Sherlock fed ducks weird things as an experiment when he was a kid. Just thinking about Sherlock as a child made John smile. He must have been unbearable.

John sighed as he sipped his hot coffee on a bench next to the pond. It felt so good to be home, back at the flat, to see nothing had changed. He thought about home every day. He also realised that the sense of adventure he used to get from the army was no longer enough for him. When he was out there only a few days ago he saw men with guns, children being threatened, a real war zone and yet always his mind travelled back to wondering what case Sherlock was on now, how many times had Mycroft tried to contact him, how many times had Sherlock insulted Anderson? But when he had got home he had felt something, something odd. An atmosphere. Sherlock had been acting weird and John couldn't understand why. And he too felt strange. It was like they had both put up a brick wall up in their minds to stop the other from finding something out. But what? He didn't want to keep anything from Sherlock; he knew Sherlock would work it out anyway. So why then wasn't everything normal, how it should be?

He sat there for sometime lost in his thoughts before deciding Sherlock definitely had had enough time to sleep and that if he was not up now he was going to throw water in his face to bring him back to the world of the living. As he shut the front doors he heard Sherlock coming down the bedroom stairs and was just in time to save him from falling flat on his face. He said in between laughs,  
>"Hello sleepy head. You're looking much better today." Sherlock scratched the back of his head, trying to erase what just happened from his mind.<br>"John, my scarf, where did you find it?" John looked down, trying to hide a blush.  
>"I don't remember... I found it last night... just before I went to bed." Sherlock smiled, John looked so cute when he was embarrassed. But then he frowned, wondering why he should be embarrassed.<p>

Sensing a need for a change in conversation John said,  
>"You have eaten haven't you?"<br>"Yes, yes of course. Don't worry I got your message." He added awkwardly, "Thanks for the shopping by the way." John nodded and they both stood quietly, not quite looking at each other. They could both feel the awkwardness in the air, almost choking them as they breathed in.

"So how was-", "What have-" they both said at the same time. They smiled at each other, waiting for the other one to speak.  
>"How was the memorial?" asked Sherlock. John's eyes glazed over slightly as he remembered.<br>"It was a good memorial for a good soldier. Exactly as it should be." Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. "He was a good man Sherlock, why do the good ones have to die?" John may be acclimatised to violence, but he still had a heart, and the death of a friend hit him hard. He turned away from Sherlock desperately trying to hide the tears that were forming in his eyes. Idiot, Sherlock thought to himself, did you really have to make him cry? His arms were aching to be put around his shoulders, Sherlock wanted to comfort him, to tell him it would all be okay and that he would look after him, but he just couldn't.

When John had composed himself he turned back to Sherlock and said,  
>"So what have you been up to whilst I was away?"<br>"This and that." Sherlock didn't want to lie to John, but he didn't want to tell the truth either.  
>"Uh huh. Well did I miss much?"<br>"No, no, nothing I couldn't handle."  
>He doesn't need me, thought John, but then rebuked himself almost immediately. How many times had he had said 'I'd be lost without my blogger' or something along those lines. The truth was it didn't matter if Sherlock needed John, because John needed Sherlock. There was no way he could leave now he knew what it was like to be with him, to watch him work, he was an amazing man and John just couldn't live without him. He just wished he knew how to tell him. When Moriarty had said that Sherlock had a heart, sort of, he had sat there and wondered what it could have meant. There was an underlining threat made there that John didn't understand. He had seen the way fear had crept onto Sherlock's face as Moriarty threatened him. It had only been on there for a second but that was all it took for Moriarty to see and smirk. Whoever Sherlock's heart belonged to; Sherlock did not like the sound of that threat. And what did John feel? Jealousy. Red hot, steaming jealously. He didn't like the fact that someone could possibly own Sherlock's heart.<p> 


	3. Nightmare

"Tea?" John asked.  
>"Please," replied Sherlock as he picked up the newspaper on the table and started flicking through the pages.<br>"Sherlock, where are the tea bags?" John asked as he found they had disappeared from the kitchen.  
>"Oh, my room. Top shelf in the cupboard." A questioning look crossed John's face. "Don't worry those ones are safe to use. The ones I used have disintegrated." John raised his hands above his head in defeat; he had given up understanding Sherlock's experiments a long time ago.<p>

He went up the stairs and paused outside Sherlock's room, hesitating before slowly pushing the door open. It felt odd entering this room; it was like opening the door to Sherlock's mind. An ordered mess was probably the best way to describe it. There were objects and bits of objects everywhere but there was space to move around it all. Careful not to touch anything suspicious John got to the cupboard in question and opened it. Because he was slightly shorter, John couldn't quite see over the top shelf and so had to feel around. When he found what felt like the box of PG Tips he pulled them down, causing a small booklet to fall down too. He picked it up and looked at it. It was a small sketchbook. John had never seen Sherlock draw before, barely even pick up a pen, so he couldn't help but have a look at it.  
>The first page was a watercolour of a crime scene. The red blood contrasting against the blue tint of the scene, caused by the police lights. The sadness and emotion in the painting overwhelmed John that he felt like he was actually at this crime scene. Sherlock had a talent of music, he played the violin beautifully when he wanted to, but John had no idea that he had such skill with a paint brush as well. Was there nothing this man couldn't do?<br>The next picture was a sketch Sherlock had done of himself. The pencil lines were sharp and full of anger, the eyes piercing your soul. Underneath the image it said 'The Devil'. Clearly Sherlock had drawn this at a time when he had made a mistake and was cross with himself, possibly after the explosion of the 3rd pip during Moriarty's 'great game'.  
>The next page was a pencil drawing of a donkey, the title underneath 'Anderson', which John couldn't help but laugh at.<br>He turned to the next page and gasped. On it was a simple but brilliant pencil sketch of John. He had captured every feature perfectly, every line placed with care and love, the expression on his face a simple but warming smile. Sherlock had named the image 'My John'.

"John?" Sherlock called from downstairs. "John you haven't touched the orange liquid in the beaker have you?" John could hear him coming up the stairs but he couldn't move. He was fixated on this sketchbook. He flicked through the pages; there were more pictures of him. some of his dozing in his chair, some of him and Sherlock together, there was one of him in his army get up called 'Hero' which caused him to blush.

He turned to the last page and froze before a pale hand took hold of the booklet and yanked it out of his grasp, a furious Sherlock staring at him waiting for an explanation.  
>"Sherlock, I… it fell." Sherlock said nothing but looked down to the last image John had looked at. It was named 'Nightmare'. Sherlock quickly shut the pad and placed it at the back of the cupboard and walked out. John, still frozen, heard the front door open and shut which brought him back to his senses. He slowly walked downstairs and sat dazed on the sofa, the image engraved on his mind. Why had Sherlock painted that? He rubbed his chin as he recollected the details. It was a watercolour of Sherlock kneeling on the floor holding a very dead looking John Watson close to his chest, with his hand partially covering a gun shot wound to the liver area on John's body, a single tear on the cheek of the detective. The background was completely out of focus but the image of the two figures was sharp and unmistakable. The colours vibrant and harsh to look at, full of reds and oranges, the colour of anger. Had Sherlock dreamt this? Was Sherlock afraid of John being in Afghanistan in case this happened? Sherlock had been reluctant for John to go away.<p>

John picked up his mobile and twirled it around in his hand, contemplating. After arguing with himself for far too long he dialled a number he had stolen from Sherlock's phone.  
>"Mycroft? Do you know where Sherlock is? I need to talk to him."<p>

Within a few minutes John was walking back to the park, to the bench that he had sat on only a few hours earlier.  
>"I used to feed the ducks bread when I was little, what did you feed them?" The corner of the mouth of the man sitting next to him curled upward.<br>"I gave one some copper sulphate once."  
>"And what happened?"<br>"I don't know, my mother took me home before I had a chance to find out." The two men laughed.  
>"Sherlock, your artwork-"<br>"John I-"  
>"It's incredible. I had no idea you could draw." Sherlock was not a modest person, but whenever John found out something about Sherlock that made him even more like a freak, he would stiffen and get defensive.<br>"Just a hobby."  
>"You are truly amazing." Sherlock fiddled with the end of his scarf awkwardly.<br>"Would you sit for me one time? I'd like to do a portrait of you properly."  
>"Sure, I'd be honoured. Dinner?" Sherlock nodded and they walked back to the flat in silence.<p>

John found a frozen pizza in the freezer and attempted yet again to show Sherlock how to work an oven.  
>"So you turn it to 220 degrees and put it on like so." Sherlock, however, had no interest in learning this information.<br>"John, I will not fill up my hard drive with useless information."  
>"Knowing how to cook is not useless information," John retorted but Sherlock had put his fingers in his ears.<p>

After dinner John decided to ask the question that had been plaguing his mind.  
>"Sherlock," Sherlock looked at him, "your painting 'Nightmare', tell me about it." John could see Sherlock's brain going, trying to work out the best way to deal with the situation, should he lie, say it was inspired by something and it was just nonsense? No he couldn't do that. He took a gulp of air in and started to explain.<p>

"I kept having this dream where I was watching you fight but you couldn't see me. There was an enemy hiding behind a wall and you couldn't see him, and I could, and I was calling out to you, telling you to watch out but you couldn't hear me. You thought it was safe so you walked forward and this man jumped out and shot you. I ran to you and held you in my arms begging for help but no one could hear me. You died in my arms. I had this dream every night you were away so I stopped sleeping. I painted it to try and make sense of it but I didn't help."

"It was only a dream," John said, resisting an urge to put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "There was nothing to worry about." Sherlock nodded in agreement but he was thinking the opposite. John had no idea of the fear he had felt, how he had woken up sweating and screaming John's name. Even talking about the dream now he could feel the perspiration on his fore head.

"I'm going to go to bed." John stood up and stretched his arms apart to express his exhaustion. Without warning Sherlock jumped up and clung to his chest, digging his face into John's jumper.  
>"Don't leave me," came a muffled voice. John, stunned, tried to pull Sherlock off of him. "Promise me, you won't leave me ever again."<br>"Sherlock, what-?" Sherlock looked up at John, his crystal eyes watery and more beautiful than John had ever seen them.  
>"I love you." John stared at him for a moment in disbelief, but then slowly wrapped him arms around Sherlock and pressed his head to his chest and whispered,<br>"I love you too, and I swear I will never leave you. You're stuck with me forever, whether you like it or not!" Sherlock hugged him tighter. In those few minutes he had shown more emotion than he had in his life. He loved John and he never wanted to let him go. Ever.


End file.
